Seeing in Cerulean
by liebedero
Summary: Just because it's easier to give up, doesn't mean you should. Take it a little at a time. That's what he should do. Then maybe Amber would stop popping up and telling him to get a move on. Recent events of House put into perspective New Chapter Up
1. A Starting Note

Dear Readers,

I have embarked on this fiction not knowing that it would be more than one chapter. It is now a seven stage production.

For the new readers:

This fiction is a look at some of the more recent events in the _House M.D. _Universe. Beginning during the time when House and Cuddy shared an office. Ending somewhere in the future. It includes recent activities, insights of events of my own creation and those of the T.V. show. Huddy fiction. House and Cuddy try to cope with one another. It is a romance, but it's not. She's more his support the deceased.

For the Original Readers:

Sorry for not having picked this back up sooner, but then It would be different. Thanks for coaxing me along to finish up a piece that is both comedic and serious. I couldn't write without your support (I like reviews, but will not stoop to beg. You will get a reply, if you review, I like to be courteous and thank the lot of you). I owe it to you that I have inspiration!

Cheers!  
/InkSpellWeaver

Katja

No need for disclaimers after this -

**kATIE jACOBS AND THE WONDERFUL HOUSE TEAM OWN EVERYTHING BUT WHAT I THINK UP TO PUT IN CHARACTERS MOUTHS UNLESS OTHERWISE DESIGNATED!!!!!!!!!!!**

**I digress...**


	2. Afflicted and Addicted

**A/N: Written before the premiere of the episode- my take on a day while the two share an office – Huddy! Oneshot**

**Enjoy!**

Cuddy sighed. One more day of dealing with House. This time It'd be worse, they were now sharing an office because _someone_ decided to ruin _her _office instead of his own. Things weren't any better between them.

_Just because your boyfriend is in there…_

She remembered what the S.W.A.T. officer had said. _No. House is NOT my boyfriend. _She shook her head. No that could never be, she only hoped Wilson wouldn't manage to conveniently mention it to her again. The kiss. Their kiss. House kissing her. That certainly wasn't happening on a regular basis, not to mention ever. House was just too, well, stubborn and annoying, a lazy ass sonuvabitch, who didn't listen to anyone and didn't give a shit about the feelings of his patients, much less anyone, and who was whiny and a miserable bastard…_that somehow I just can't stop thinking about._

_Clinic duty, uggh, I should go make the ducklings do it and then take a nap in my private offi…Shit, Shit, Shit. Cuddy'll be in there. Maybe I'll lock her in a janitor's closet, naah too mean, I'll just hide out in one of the exam rooms. I could just go home or I could get her stuck in an elevator, or…_

"House we have a patient," Taub's voice floated through the haze of his thoughts. Somewhat pleasant thoughts, about Cuddy. He was staring at her through the glass walls of his conference room.

_What an ASS! Ooo, how am I gonna work all day when…_ "Hey, Cuddy!" House yelled across the room from his chair. He leaned back and began to swing his cane in circles like a baton.

"What, House?"

"How'm I gonna work all day with your ass staring me in the face all the time? It lookin pretty toned today. You're not preggy are you?"

"House give it rest or you will be doing_ extra _clinic hours for sure, not to mention what you already owe me for what you pulled last week, that man could have killed someone, not to mention that Remy is still out on sick leave no thanks to you,"

"I'm not the one who was sticking medicine that she didn't need up her ass!"

"You are the one who gave that man back his gun, I know you just gave it to him, he couldn't have wrestled it from you and-"

"It's the German measles, she complained of a headache, and she had a cough, sore throat, check for a rash and then give her some aspirin to take care of the fever, she'll have to wait out the rest," and with that he left the room.

"Wilson, do you think it's my fault that Thirteen was an idiot,"

"Excuse me? What do you mean House, an idiot?"

"Ya know being Bi,"

"House, be reasonable," Wilson sighed , "Technically it was her own choice to take the meds, but you didn't have to give the man his gun ba-"

"Not talking about that, talking about her being Bi, the decisions she made,"

"Based on your judgments of her?"

"I need more Vicodin, ASAP, before Cuddy ushers my ass down to the Clinic,"

"House, just admit it, you feel guilty about her condition,"

"Hmmm well I guess…Not really, she took the meds, anyone else in the room could have just as easily and I even offered to do so myself," House made a face as he sipped on the coffee Wilson had given him. He set it down on Wilson's paperwork. "Bad coffee, keep your anti-depressants to yourself, I'll stick with my Vicodin which you so kindly are about to prescribe me,"

"House, I've seen it work on you, you should at least try it,"

"Not, in the least, interested. It makes me feel…all…fuzzy," he spat out the words and left the room prescription in hand, a smirk on his face.

"House,"

"What,"

" It doesn't have to be like this,"

"What?"

"The constant bickering and innuendoishy jokes,"

"Why?"

"You and I and everyone else know that this is going somewhere House," Cuddy was so close to him their bodies were almost touching. He leaned his head down, his long nose grazing hers.

"This isn't when I'm supposed to kiss you, so don't act like I'm going to,"

Cuddy sighed, tilting her head down and to the side. "House," She looked up. "I want you too," and sighed again. On tiptoe this time, she gently kissed his cheek and walked away.


	3. Work, Not Play

**A/N: Hullo !!! This is a companion fic to afflicted, it has the same sort of funny yet serious housish nature to it. Another one-shot that takes place at no particular time in the spectrum of things. Just a really bad day for Cuddy, and really fun one for House.(in my opinion it's one of my best) HUDDY!!!! **

**Nefertiri/ISW**

**_______________________________________________________________________**

**Work, Not Play**

Sometimes, when things are getting out of hand around here, I get a little over zealous in my efforts to end the all reigning jackass that House can become if not properly contained. In all honesty, he's a lot like a time bomb. If you clip the wrong wire the whole squadron goes to hell when he blows up in my face. Of course, he doesn't go down without a fight; kicking and screaming the whole way. And then sometimes it gets to the point where I just can't deal. Today hadn't been one of those days, no au contraire it was a glorious day. A day when House was almost a non-existent in my life That is, it was up till about two seconds ago.

"I demand another doctor for my mother!"

"Let me guess, Dr. House did something with out your permission," I said to the poor woman.

"Chemo Therapy! She doesn't have cancer!"

"Nooo, of course she doesn't. She has death, and you do know that death is hereditary, right?" House. The asshole, what was he up to now? Yeah, you guessed it making my entire existence miserable.

"House," I said to him in that voice with that look that says to him, not again you don't so don't try me cause I'm peeved right now.

"What, what was I supposed to do?" he's acting incredulous.

"Call a consult!" I say like it's the most obvious thing in the world. It is the most obvious thing in the world.

"A consultant is someone who takes a subject you understand and makes it sound confusing, otherwise, everyone would call consults," He replies in the know it all and I - know - you - know - I – know - it - all tone of voice he has perfected when talking to me in situations like this. He certainly has to do this an awful lot, and I'd certainly hope, with the amount of time he does spend talking me up that he'd have perfected it by now. But I had to reply eventually. And he was right, I sort of was wondering if he was right.

"House, don't argue with me, and give this woman full authority over what happens to her mother in my hospital!"

"Look Cuddy, there are three sides to any argument, there's my side, your side and the right side. None of those three mentions anything about a disgruntled daughter of just another idiot patient getting any say in our argument. You know that I have my reasons, and you know that I'm right," again, he's indignant. But the daughter is too.

"Dr, Cuddy, I want another doctor for my mother's case!" But, as always, House won't back off.

"Oh give me a break! You think your mother's pretty bad of right now? Well cheer up, cause the worst is yet to come, that is if you don't let me continue treatment for-,"

"House!" I just have to yell at him, that was uncalled for.

"Cuddy!"

If I were English and a man, or rather if I were an Englishman I think I'd have called him an indignant pert. He certainly thinks my ass is pert, and my breasts probably look perky to him. Or it could be the other way around, with House you never know. Again, I had to respond, it's my job and duty and this poor woman's close to tears.

"House, I mean it," It's a lame excuse for a come back, but he knows that I actually do mean it and that I'm saying what I honestly and truly mean to say.

"So do I Cuddy. Obviously this woman doesn't want her mother to live to see her 70th birthday. Where there's a will, there's usually five hundred eager relatives waiting with bated breath,"

"That was the last straw House. Clinic duty. Now, before I have to break open the separate file I keep for legal expenses needed because of you," And your unkind, unethical, ways. And yet…And yet again, how did I ever like this man before? Well that's not too hard to understand. Well, maybe for you…

________________________________________________________________________

After House had left, I watched which way he turned, and yes, he was going back to his office; just as I had figured he would. I quickly consoled the daughter, who was probably just as ignorant if not more so than her patient mother, because, I had an inkling, House was probably right. I told her to hold on just a second and rushed myself as fast as my heels and short, tight, professional -looking skirt would let me.

I came up to the office and I could already hear House's rough gravely voice, slightly accented from having spent so much time speaking other languages. He and his new fellows were talking together. Foreman was the least happy of the bunch.

"Usually, when you're right, no one remembers. When you're wrong, no one lets anyone forget," House was telling them. "And everyone make mistakes. The trick is to make them when no one's watching. That way, when you're wrong, no one knows enough to remember that you screwed up," There was that slight pause that told me he was letting his 'lesson' sink in. "Now go and start the treatment again,"

No one had moved. House stared at them incredulously . "What?"

It was Taub who spoke up. "Even you don't have that kind of money! That check will break your balance, turn up void! Where are you gonna get that kind of money?"

So that was the slip of paper he had been waving in their faces.

"I'm gonna do a lot of clinic hours," he replied dryly. After a pause he continued "That's why I always borrow money from a pessimist. He won't expect it back," another pause. "Who'd you think I'd get it from? Cuddy? A bonus in my pay check?"

So he was talking about Wilson. I would have gone to warn him but if I wanted to get House, I'd have to be good. That meant no warnings for poor Wilson quite yet. If House really intended to even bombard him. It could just as easily have been a ruse to get his new fellows scared out of their wits. And he had been doing that lately. It was defiantly something for me to ponder.

I waited for him to get a distance ahead and then sped up to catch him. It had to look good, as always. And so far I hadn't been caught. And so far no one had died, well almost no one.

I heard the footsteps coming after me before I saw the owner of the feet. It turned out to be Taub. He was following House with a gait that suggested he was on the brink of urgency. I suppose that house must have been threatening to get rid of him again and his job was on the chopping block, quite literally.

I could hear House, and apparently he had heard Tab too, so I thought maybe he had heard me. But after waiting for Taub to catch up to House who was going at a relentless pace for a cripple (yes, I do in fact make cripple jokes) I decided I was safe from him for the moment.

He was speaking. "Many people quit looking for work when they find a job," he said gallingly. I wish Taub would punch him, instead of sucking up to him.

"What if there's nothing wrong with her, what if it's just the extreme conditions and protein overload. We could have everything, she could be fine, and there could be no underlying cause. She hasn't experienced any other symptoms, nothing is progressing here, House, she's fine. We should keep her on fluids and then send her home after a night,"

House had stopped walking. "House, we don't need to do this, she's fine. The underlying cause is that there is no underlying cause,"

"If you had said that the underlying cause was that there was no underlying symptom, then you'd be right. If everything seems to be going well, you have obviously overlooked something. And since, as you say she's fine it means that we overlooked something. The something we missed was the underlying cause and that is that I don't know what the underlying cause is. Which is why we're going to go find out,"

By now he's slide the door open with his cane and is hobbling inside. I'm supposing that it's the first time he's actually seen his patient. I've caught up to them and can just see House from the back where I'm positioned behind the shades.

"Hello. By now you are wondering who the strange man with the cane that is taking the fancy medication off of your IV is. I am Dr. House. I'm here to tell you that you are not fine, yet. Which is why I'm taking you off all your meds. You are now only on fluids. And if what I think is wrong with you actually is, then in about half an hour, we'll know,"

"And where's my daughter?"

"She's not allowed to be in here right now, you're special, you get the attention,"

"Really?"

"Yes. Trust me,"

What's coming next I know won't be good. When House says 'trust me' like that, I know that it can't be good. Not a single bit.

"Always remember," he says to her, "You are unique, absolutely unique," here it comes, "Just like everyone else,"

Offended silence follows.

________________________________________________________________________

He'd given me the slip. Once and a while I think that I agree with House about nurses. One told my newest assistant that she had seen me outside of one of House's patient's rooms, and low and behold she finds me and takes me away to do my job. Which is of course what I had been doing in the first place, she just wanted me to be doing the more important kind of work, sort of. , once I got back, House was of course no where to be found. I checked most of the usual places: Wilson's Office, the faculty lounge, even though his soap doesn't come on till four, Exam Room Three, the Men's Room on the Third Floor, Coma Guy's room, and the Autopsy Lab. No such luck. Cafeteria – Ditto. Even his own office was empty, and his ducklings hadn't seen him. One last place. And yes, I found him. Eating the lunch I supposed Wilson had ended up paying for. I vaguely wondered at that point whether it was still worth it for me to let Wilson know about the check. I guessed that my efforts would be futile. I'd let it be for now, and pay for it later in guilt. I figured he had come down to the morgue to think and eat because it was oddly enough a good lace for that sort of stuff. Lonely. Inhabited by dead and rotting corpses that could have been buried 'neath someone's Rhododendron Bushes, if you get my mean, cadavers and all that.

Yes, again he was eating. No, it actually wasn't a Rueben, this time he was biting into an Italian style sub. They must have gone out, and that made me sure that Wilson had paid for his lunch, unless, maybe what Wilson said was true. House had seen a psychiatrist. And although he had said that it wasn't working I'd decided that was only because Wilson had found out. That's the thing about House. If he even remotely decides to do something good form himself and one of us finds out then he had to get rid of it, flush it out of his life like it's all the Vicodin he's killing himself with. And all we have to do is care and he spoils it. Just one 'good for you' and it's over. And it doesn't only hurt him, it hurts Wilson and I, too. Personally. It's also bad for his team. And I can't help but wonder, if we did just leave well enough alone, would he take care of himself for once, with no one to do it for him? I doubt it to much to take the chance. I care about him, too. A lot. We both do. And he knows it. But he negates everything. Why? He doesn't even thinking about all of this has gotten to my head, and a migraine is forming. If I'm going to have to take on house later then I don't fell like dealing with him right now. If he's right he'll get paged soon enough and be out of my hair. I hope. House once told me that if everything was coming my way, then I was obviously in the wrong lane. He also told me not to argue with a fool because the people watching might not know the difference, and the people watching were important. I've ignored the latter of the two for a long time, otherwise I'd never argue with House. Today, I've decided that for the time being I'll let him be, I'm NOT a thing House didn't say was the one thing he could never do. Always forgive your enemies - Nothing annoys them as much. At least that's what they say. In this case, House is the enemy and either I'm the forgiver, or Wilson is. The statement of course isn't completely true. House and Wilson made up, and House wasn't annoyed. He'd missed Wilson. House invokes a lot of feelings in people. They can stem anywhere from hatred, to annoyance, to disgust, to mild dislike, to terror, to worry, and caring. For Wilson and I worry and annoyance are the two biggest. We worry collectively about House about 24-7. And yes, that is bad for us, but He'd be dead by now if we didn't. Once, Wilson told me that House had said dealing or messing with him was a step removed from suicide. At first I didn't get it and practically put myself and Wilson and the team on suicide watch. Even I could see the relief was plain on my face when Wilson told me what he had meant. But we still both thought it was ominous. See, that's what I mean about worrying, he even so much as says the s and the u and we're both pointing pistols at his heart, daring him to so much as move.

And that's why I have migraines. It's not from running the hospital; it's from caring for my best doctor, because I worry that he'll do something that could hurt himself, and that this time he might not wake up. He's stuck a knife in a wall socket, been shot by an angry former patient's widower, been in a bus crash, had a heart attack, a cracked skull, and a brain bleed the same day, and deep brain stimulation not even a week later. He'd been on Methadone and fell asleep almost killing himself, and just recently gotten in a motorcycle accident on the way to his out of town is why I have migraines. This is why they invented extra strength non-drowsy Tylenol. Tylenol – If you are Dean of medicine at PPTH and have to deal with a near suicidal brilliant genius employee, named House, then we are right for you. Comical, yet so true.

________________________________________________________________________

So he was going himself to get the patient ready for the procedure. I had been right about House being right about his newer theory, and wrong about him being right about the old one. He had gotten paged and the patient was seizing. They went with Autoimmune, it fit the best. It was also NOT the answer.

Again I was stuck watching from in between the shades, and listening. "So, we know I was right about being wrong," he says.

Poor old lady. "What do we know?"

"Nothing, except that you're dying, fast," Typical.

"God will watch out for me, he hears the call of his servant," Religious, that's bad for the both of them, from House's point of view.

"So you think that there'll be something better afterward?" So far he seems polite enough, respectable even. I should have known better. The patient couldn't have guessed, but I wish for her sake she had.

"Yes, I do. God keeps heaven for those who do well on earth,"

"Everybody wants to go to heaven, but nobody wants to die. You believe that this life is just on big test? Cause if it is, I don't think I'd like a god who'd test us when most of us wouldn't even make it into the waiting room,"

And here, I know him just well enough to see that he's pulling from _Revelation_, by Flannery O'Connor. And he's done a very nice job of it too. Although it's a twisted way of looking at it, it's true enough. And it's brought silence to the room. Today he's not in the mood to make fun of believers. Today he's, well depressed isn't the right word. Today House is deflecting.

________________________________________________________________________

Again, I had seemed to have lost him, till I realized that it was just nearing four. Prescription passion time. Oh goody. I try his office first, then the lounge. Last but usually the one that revels my missing employee, the comatose floor, in Coma Guy's Room. How about that. One Coma Guy pays for Cable.

With that migraine and all of those serious thoughts going through my head I'm in no mood to be playful. Professional is the best thing I can e right now. "House, get back to work,"

"But they're just going to have the big reveal! Will Brock choose Anna? Is he the father of the twins? I need to know!" he whines. He's in a bad mood.

"Don't' you watch anything worthwhile, like the news?" I ask, knowing full well that the answer is a big fat NO.

"The evening news is where they begin with 'Good evening', and then proceed to tell you why it isn't," he begins as the screen changes to a less interesting commercial than the previous one for Britney's Circus Tour." They say things like join the army, you get to visit exotic places, and meet strange people, and then kill them. And this is supposed to be good for you?"

I look up from House to the words flashing across the muted screen. Go Army. Army Strong. I can't help but think that he's somewhat right. But still… He's deflecting internally again.

"Do your job, House," I say before I turn and walk out. He will eventually.

________________________________________________________________________

Sometime between when last I'd seen him watching commercials and now House had gotten up and done his job, and during that time had his Eureka! moment. And now I got to watch him dish out his diagnosis to the mother and daughter. He was in a much better mood now, as always.

"Basically, I couldn't repair your brakes, so I made your horn louder," he explained metaphorically so that the two could understand. "If your Kidney's back up again, you can scream louder," he's cruel when he's happy with himself. But then again, who isn't?

_____________________________________________________________________

I've finally found him again, the bastard. Right were he should have been, sort of. He's in the clinic, but not doing his duty. He's sitting in the waiting room, reading a magazine, _People_ or maybe it's just got a _People_ cover, for all I know he could have_ Playboy_ plastered to his face.

I've done my little strut up to him. That important walk that I've never had to work hard to perfect, the one that I was born with. My walk says 'Cuddy's the boss' all over it. That's something more than once House had acknowledged freely, along with all the good hard work I did to get a job where I could put it to use.

I'm standing in front of him now. It's time to make him pay. And it never gets old, which is why we've continued to bicker and bitch at each other for so long. We actually enjoy beating on each other with that slight sense of sexual tension and browbeating humor, as always. But this time I go for the serious approach.

"House, get your lazy ass up out of that chair and into Exam Room One, so help me I will make your poor sorry ass go without Vicodin for a week,"

He's acknowledged the fact that I'm here, let the battle of wits commence.

"But Doctor Cuddy, I am but a poor cripple, and cannot work," this is in his best faux Shakespearian sounding tone. It's lame, but funny.

"They say that hard work never hurts anyone, and if you do work, you get paid. Who knows maybe I'll pay all the cripples who work in Vicodin?"

"Even though they say hard work never hurts anybody why should I chance it? I might fall, like Icarus did,"

"Icarus had wings and a cliff to fall off of, you have solid ground and a cane," he's play pouting now. Soon he'll start-

"Please, mommy? Can I go out and play now? Pleeeease?"

Like I was going to say, he'll start with the mommy stuff, which is pathetic, and yet…And yet. No, no and yet, it's just pathetic. But I'll respond in like anyway, and he knows just what I'm thinking.

"No, not till you've finished your chores, and then you can go out and play," I've given the smiling condescending Motherly look in response to that one way too many times. I've head that one way too many times. He's already formulated a comeback and it's on its way out of his mouth right now.

"But mommy, it'll be to dark outside by the time I'm done," there's more pouting going on. He's at his best when he's in tune with his inner child, or his outer child, which ever you prefer.

"To bad so sad," I've had enough of the joking around now. Devil Woman's working the night shift, as House would say. And yes, today when I woke up and put on this sexy little red two piece suit and the pointy, sexy red heels, the devil said, ' Oh shit, my mistress is awake,'.

But now he's back into his _Playboy _or whatever, ignoring me completely. I grab it right out of his hands. He's in for a lecture now; I've had enough of him for one day.

"Look, House, just look, for once at all the people here, busy people, who know that they aren't important enough and rich enough to not do their jobs, working their asses off. Now tell me, why aren't you?" His smile is back all of a sudden and I know I'm in for a real witty comeback.

"I like work," he says, "I really do. It fascinates me. I can sit and look at it for hours. These people really do have the work ethic for it. How about I conduct a study?"

"Exam Room One. Now," At least he knows that the game is over. He's stood up and is walking dutifully over to the exam rooms. But as he begins to turn the handle of the door of Exam Room One he turns and looked at me. This was going to be bad. In the loudest voice he could muster he shouted for the entire waiting room to hear (no surprises there),

"Dr. Cuddy! Have you mixed up your little red pills with my little blue ones?!" As if he'd admit to needing the little blue pills. As if.

But then. Shit. The hospitals newest donor walks in. House's comment came just in time. Just in time for Party Pants' Martini break. And he knows it. I'm smiling, too. That's the worst part. I'm sure he can see it through the back of his head. Maybe, he turned and looked, and I'm too busy being red in the face to notice. But either way I know he's smirking on the other side of that twisted head of his. And I'm still smiling. Shit. And he's doing the slight turn of his head before opening to door to the exam room. Yep. Smile's still there. And he's seen it.

And once again, Shit.

~Finn~

**A/N: So Review, please!!! It goes back and forth a bit between funny and serious. Was it too much, was it perfect? Characterization? It is by far one of favorite, so don't disappoint me! My BFF Amazing beta is The Elf!!!!!!! She read this aloud in chipmunk voices, and we screamed with laughter because she was envisioning little chipmunks running around PPTH in human clothes (one hobbling with a cane and had stubble!!!) **


	4. SplitThe Plight of Dillusion

**A/N: I've had this and the previous chapter for a while, I apologize. Hopefully this will make some sense. It has really taken a mind of it's own and now I have to get control of it again, for the next chapter. The song, Minnie the Moocher is credited to the Band From T.V. cover, lyrics aren't hard to find.**

________________________________________________________________________

Fundraising. It can be split into several other forms. Fund and Raising, thus meaning the raising of funds. However, the word 'Fun' can also be gotten out of the word. But in no sense can it's meaning be taken as 'fun raising'. Never have I been to a fundraiser that was even remotely a good waste of my time. Not that I'd really be doing a whole lot with my time anyway.

But that's not the point. I'm stuck here at the hospital fundraiser, being bored out of my mind, being able to do nothing enjoyable but play poker and look at Cuddy's fun bags or amazing ass in her gorgeous red and black gown. She defiantly looks sexy, Spanish style.

By now, of course, I am pretty drunk. Not that that's a really bad thing, cause everyone else here is drunk too. Cuddy's had several of her martinis, Wilson must be feeling down, cause he's got a cosmos like Amber used to drink. I'm sticking with the usual, a scotch or sometimes bourbon.

Chase isn't here, he's at his cousin's wedding in Australia. He didn't take Cameron, because she's sipping on a Margarita, and I'm intrigued. Foreman and Thirteen came as a couple. Thirteen is of course looking gorgeous in gold, Foreman defiantly got lucky. Taub actually brought his wife, I'm impressed; they're busy chatting with Foreteen.

I'm playing poker with Cuddy, Wilson, and Cameron. Cameron is beating us all out. Wilson is dead already, and Cuddy and I'll are fighting it out. It really is a deadly game. I'm watching intently as the game goes on, playing when I need to and thinking about the intriguing things that I've noticed about my coworkers so far. And I'm dead bored.

The new donor is asking to be dealt in. I refrain from saying anything rash cause Cuddy really hammered me for the pills getting mixed up thing. I don't want any more clinic hours, and I'm too tired and drunk to make much of this right now.

I look up from my drink just in time to see the new donor, Mr. I'm one rich ass dude, ask Cuddy to dance. And now I'm just drunk enough to let my feelings get the better of me. Well, alcohol induced feelings. At least that's what I want everyone to think. I'm one jealous ass right now, and Cuddy deserves a better dancing partner than Mr. Rich Ass Donor.

I secretly took some methadone earlier today, and it wore off a while ago, thank God (or I wouldn't be downing bourbon and scotch). But the effects are lasting and I feel pretty good. What's one dance?

I don't wait to long for the song to change, they had started in the middle of a slow boring song. They're about to start dancing to this spicy, Spanish song when I walk up. Something like _Smooth_.

" 'Scuse me, I've got a lady to dance with," And god can she dance. The Song's got good tempo, and it's not too fast for my leg. I can handle it. Cuddy is surprised, I can tell, and she knows that I can tell. I also know that I'm going to either be out some clinic hours, or in deeper. I twirl her in time to the beat, we're chest to rack. Her cheek is brushing mine. I know that I'm making someone else into a jealous bastard right now, even more jealous than I was.

I haven't danced in years, not like this. But then again, my leg hasn't felt this good in a long time. I'm not even limping. I'm dancing like I used to. And I loved to dance. I took Ballroom lessons once. It made my dad pretty mad, he was kinda weirded out. My mom loved it, she had the same passion for dance.

The song has changed, but I'm not letting her go. It's one of my favorites, and I'll really be able to get into it. _Moondance_, the Michael Bublé version, is as good as my dancing gets. The Spanish was her thing, but with this I can really lead her. And she's glowing. I sneak a glance at Mr. Rich Ass Donor. He's red, and mad, a cripple dances better than he does.

I've got her closer, and she's getting hot, whether its embarrassment, or attraction I don't know, or care. As we swing out, I can tell that she's smiling, having fun. And the song is ending, slow and close. We're facing away, and I give her kiss on her cheek. She pulls away, a little. She thinks I'm too drunk to have all my inhibitions.

"One more dance, it's _Fever, _"and I pull her back in, and she complies.

God, is he really that drunk? He's kissed me, and I'm wondering what, if anything, my position dictates that I do in this situation. But he's looking at me in that way, and I know it's not the alcohol. He actually wants to dance with me. And he's good. Better than Mr. Rocheré.

The song has ended, and it really was a good song to dance to, he's got that style down pat. Another more Latin style song comes on. Another Michael Bublé, I'm guessing. And House knows that I like that Latin tempo, so we just keep dancing.

We're close again, and it's almost intimate. Wilson is watching us with his little knowing smirk, and I'm wondering who it's meant for. Maybe it's both of us. House defiantly told Wilson about our kiss, and Wilson told me about House's Itch.

_Summer Wind _comes on and House stops dancing. He takes me by the hand and leading me over to a table. He pulls out a chair for me, pushing it in as I sit down. He's getting us drinks, not either of our usual. He's getting us wine. The good stuff too. Wilson meant that smirk for House. He brings me the wine, and then excuses himself.

Wilson is coming over to me, and I smile, a little.

"House has quite the thing for you tonight, how drunk is he?"

The last part was for my benefit, and his. He's not going to give his friend away. "Wilson, he's not that drunk, he's jealous, and …" I don't finish, Wilson does.

"In love," He raises his eyebrows at me. "Isn't it a fickle thing? You and I know well what it's like, and tomorrow, it'll be just like it always is,"

"He kissed me,"

"What?"

Wilson is surprised, defiantly surprised. "He kissed me,"

"Right here in front of everyone? He kissed you? Just like that?"

I nod my head, and give Wilson my 'I know 'look. "You should go, he'll be coming back," Wilson just nods and leaves, just as House comes back, sitting down at the table and pouring us both a glass of red wine.

Music was still playing and he just sat looking at me, saying nothing. He was going to make me start the conversation. And I have no idea what to say.

She had no idea what to say. I don't really either. It's better if I don't say anything, I really don't feel like screwing this up. I wonder if I even can. I just sit looking at her with my ice blue eyes and I know she can't not meet my gaze. Her eyes are huge, a grey-blue. I want to drown in them. I think. That coming out of my head is just a little drunk sounding.

I can't think of a word to say. I'm going to do what I do every time. "Goodnight," I say. And I stand up, without so much as touching my glass. I grab my cane and walk towards the door, I open the door, and I walk out to the dying sounds of the band playing _Come Fly With Me. _I can only hope that I haven't ruined it, that she would have done the same thing. But I know that I ruined it. I'll always ruin it.

I need to negate everything. And now I know why. I negate everything because it's what I know. I can say it, but I can't say what I feel, only what I want others to think I feel. Why? I have no idea. I lost to Mr. Rich Ass Donor. He'll be all over Cuddy by now. I can believe I lost, willingly, against my will. A nice scotch on the rocks would be nice right about now. I need to drown, and I can't do it in Cuddy's eyes, or in her cleavage.

I can't believe what I'm doing right now. I've turned around and gone back in. The back entrance. The band is taking a break and I can just see the rented Grand Piano out of the corner of my eye. I walk over as quietly as I can to the beautiful Steinway.

The keys are a beautiful ivory and I sit down and begin to play some non-descript little tune. I've played it before, when I should have been at Cuddy's baby naming ceremony. I've entitled it Serenade for Elizavetra, or Cuddy's Serenade for short. No one really takes notice of the fact that the band isn't back yet.

It's time to step it up a little, make an impression. The music filters out and then -

"_This is the story of Minnie the Moocher  
She was a red hot hoochie-koocher  
She was the roughest, toughest frail  
But Minnie had a heart as biiiig as wha-a-le."_

The piano interlude rang out clearly in the now silent room, and I could feel all eyes on me in confusion.

"_Minnie messed around with a bloke named Smoky  
She loved him though he was cokey  
He took her down to china t own  
And he showed her how to kick the gong around,"_

I can see Cuddy and Wilson staring at me in wonder/horror and the rest of the hospital, either looking disgruntled/disgusted or enjoying my performance; some couples began to dance, I'm just having fun.

"_Hidey-hi hidey-ho  
Told you before that I love you so  
Hidey-hi hidey-ho  
Told you before that I love you so"_

I'm looking at Cuddy as I say the last part and I'm not sure what she's thinking right now, as I sing to her, and the rest of the party-goers, but specifically her, Lisa Cuddy.

"_She had a dream about the King of Sweden  
He gave her things that she was needin'  
He gave her a home built of gold and steel  
A diamond car with platinum wheels"_

Pretty much most couples are dancing, and Wilson's took the liberty of dancing with Cuddy. The band is back and knows the song, now, they're playing along with me and I can tell that they're having more fun now.

"_Hidey-hi hidey-ho  
Told you before that I love you so  
Hidey-hi hidey-ho  
Told you before that I love you so"_

"_Come blow your horn for me, daddy"_

The chorus girl interjects her line, and is looking at me as if she'd like to be sitting on top of the piano singing **at **me rather than with me. The sax player is good, and I take a break during his solo. Singing and playing energetically takes a lot. I give a little intro into the next chorus as the sax fades.

"_He gave his townhouse and racing horses  
Each meal she ate was a dozen courses  
Had a million dollars worth of nickels and dimes  
She sat around and counted them a million times"_

I have eyes only for Cuddy, and she can see that, so does Wilson, but I can tell that the other people around me are surprised that I'd 'open up' as much as I am by playing my heart out, to Cuddy, on the piano.

"_Hidey-hi hidey-ho  
Told you before that I love you so  
Hidey-hi hidey-ho  
Told you before that I love you soooo"_

I take my piano solo, and jazz it up as much as I dare. My eyes are now locked on the moving figure of Cuddy. Cameron does a take. She looks at me and follows my eyes…and understands my goal – Cuddy.

"_Hidey-hidey-hi! (hidey-hidey-hi!)  
Hodey-hodey-ho! (Hodey-hodey-ho!)  
Heydee-heydee-hey! (Heydee-heydee-hey!)  
Hidey-hidey-hi! (Hidey-hidey-hi!)"_

The people are really getting into it now, and echoing me with the band, who is sweating up a storm, and not one person is frowning, except for Mr. Rich Ass Donor Guy.

"_WhoooaaaaaAh! (WhoooaaaaaAh!)  
Yeah yeah yeah! (Yeah yeah yeah!)  
Hee-hee-hee! (Hee-hee-hee)  
Hidey-hidey-hi! (Hidey-hidey-hi!)"_

Now I'm feeling good, they even got a little crazy with me. I'll jazz it up and bring it out at a fade and maybe I'll have made my point.

"_Hidey-hi hidey-ho (Hidey-hi hidey-ho)  
told you before that I love you so (Told you before that I love you so)  
Hidey-hi hidey-ho (Hidey-hi hidey-ho)  
Told you before that I love you so (Told you before that I love you so)_

_Told you befo-ore I lo-uve you sooo."_

Everything has faded out as the last tones of the piano play as I sing the last line to Cuddy. She's blushing. Badly. I've made my point. Now, it's time to go home. I can still hear the clapping as I leave the building.

It feels wrong, being clean, being sober. I haven't even toughed my Vicodin, or my scotch on the rocks. I'm just sitting on the floor of my bathroom. I don't know why. It seems lately that I've been the man with few answers and more questions. I'm thinking that maybe something's actually wrong with me.

But there's always something that isn't right. And sitting here, being clean and sober, that's beginning to way heavy on my mind. I always push it away, and I want to push it away right now. But I've told myself not to. If I hadn't I'd be unconscious on the floor right now, instead of painfully aware of my discomfort, with myself, my situation, and my physical pain. Is that a bad thing?

For someone who avoids pain and confrontation, well, yes obviously. There is obviously something wrong with me. I'm about to get up, maybe for some coffee. But that isn't happening anytime soon, because, I know, just as I stand up that I've made a big mistake. Pain is searing in my head at this moment, and eventually everything goes hazy and…

"You're late," she's fuming at me, madder than usual.

"Sorry, late night last night, as you obviously know,"

"What do you mean, House?"

"The fundraiser…it still continued after I left, right?" I stare at her quizzically, and she stares back.

"House…what fundraiser?"

I don't even bother answering and I walk away. She's right, it never happened. No fundraiser. At least there wasn't last night. But there is a huge bump on my head, and I woke up on the floor of my bathroom this morning, an untouched scotch and an unopened container of Vicodin sitting on the counter. Something happened. What, I'm not sure. And that's when the whispering starts. First I hear it in my right ear, then another voice in the left.

_"Come on House, are loosing it? Step it up, make worth while. Now about that patient?" _says the seductive catlike purr in my right ear. Her eyes are huge, blue, clear, with long black lashes beating down on them. Her legs really do go all the way up to Canada. Her shoulder length hair is sweeping across her face. _Amber…_

_"Pick up another puzzle House, you need it, you to get away from it all, away from everything, from the memories. What about that patient? Is it really that rare disease that you're so eager to prove your theory on? Figure it out House, cause I think your wrong, what about a calcium deficiency, or iron build up in the blood stream?" _the soft masculine voice, low and harshly familiar sounds in the left ear. _Kutner… _ It seems that I'm never alone, not even in my own head.

One half of me tells my body to turn back, to go to Cuddy, to be scared that they're back, back from death. But the other half, the dominant half, turns me away, throws the thought out of my mind.

"What about iron buildup coupled with calcium deficiency?"

"But that throws out your cool theory,"

"This is cooler, Taub,"

_What was that? Amber…_

"_Right House, but don't exclude it,"_

_Kutner…_

"_It could mean something, more, later, if you forget, it'll be gone,"_

Somehow I know that they aren't talking about the patient.

My head is searing this morning, and again I wake up, startled about my dream. Why would I see Amber and Kutner? More importantly, why didn't last night almost not being real not scare me as much as it should have? If last night hadn't been real I might as well give up on my pursuit of the devil woman. She really is one evil and cunning woman, and I wonder if she takes it seriously when I tell that it's a _massive _and I **mean** _massive _turn on.

I feel like I have a colossal hangover, and I want to stay here at home, almost as much as I want to go to work and maybe kiss Cuddy once more, maybe tell her that I played Minnie the Moocher just for her. Maybe go to the house of the Rich Ass Donor Guy and give him what's what.

But I know what's going to happen. I'm going to go into work and act as if nothing's happened, unless she gives me the go ahead, which won't happen because she'll wait for me to give the go ahead, or unless I talk with Wilson, cause he'll fill me in on what she said last night.

So I'll struggle to get up and get into semi-respectable clothes and hobble to work. It's worth it, damn that gorgeous devil woman.

"_Hidey-hi hidey-ho (Hidey-hi hidey-ho)  
told you before that I love you so (Told you before that I love you so)  
Hidey-hi hidey-ho (Hidey-hi hidey-ho)  
Told you before that I love you so (Told you before that I love you so)_

_Told you befo-ore I lo-uve you sooo."_

He's looking right at me as he sings out the last line of the song. The band has died out, and his voice and the piano ring out clear in the silent room. Certain people are looking at me, silently, questioningly, but everyone else bursts into applause for House.

Wilson has his arm around my waist, in a friendly, I'm-just-a –friend- and -nothing -more -because –my- best -friend -will -be -all –over- me-if -I –even- let -a -stray -thought –pass sort of way. It's kind of sweet. He smiles and lets go of me and walks over to the bar for a drink. He's taken a seat; he won't be back any time soon.

My eyes wander the fundraiser's company for the crippled doctor, the star of the night, to those who don't know him well enough to tell that he was up to something.

I finally catch sight of him, moving laboriously through the crowd and towards the door; he's leaving again. I try and follow him, but Cameron had caught up with me.

"Doctor Cuddy, what was House…"

She trails off as I falter when House makes it out the door. She follows my eyes over to the door swinging closed on the dark night outside of the Lobby. Cameron looks at me piteously, before just walking away. I really don't think I'm that sad. At least I hope not.

"Goodnight House,"

_"You really shouldn't have left, not tonight, you actually gained ground on Cuddy, you're just chicken, right?"_

I look to my right at the figure that had appeared in my passenger seat.

_Amber…_

Shit. No wonder I was worried. Somehow, she's back. And she's not going away anytime soon. Cuddy will have to wait. This is _such _a great time for me to start seeing dead people.

"Hello Cutthroat Bitch," I say, and when Amber smiles I can't help but notice how sinister she looks.


	5. Hope An Intermission

**Those eyes.** Something is wrong. He looks…hurt, confused, something **is very wrong.**

"But…but, I… you… and…"

"House? House?"

His eyes. **Emotion** is emanating from them before they suddenly seem to go blank. But they stare, wide, strait ahead, seeing but not seeing. **Seeing beyond me**, beyond this room. He's stumbling backwards.

"House!"

No response.

"**House**, are you alright? House, is something wrong? House? House!"

His mouth is agape, just a little. His breathing is light and steady, but unsure.

I touch his face.

"House, are you Okay?"

He blinks, the pain and hurt still visible in his eyes. But the confusion is replaced with…fear. **Terror.**

The eyes are terrified, the eyes are afraid. **House is afraid.**

**"No," he says** to me quietly, voice shaking. "I'm not okay,"

Oddly, I'm relieved. I'm smiling at him, sadly. I touch his face again, stroking it softly.

He's admitted it to me. But that's not what's revolutionary. **He's admitted it to himself.** And **that's what hurts.** That's what has made the **fear** be so plainly seen in his eyes, those eyes. They once seemed soullessly **emotion**al. But **the soul is there**, as is the deeply felt pain of the **realization** that he now has.

Despite it all, I know that he'll be okay. I know now more than ever, because now, we'll be able to help him, and **he'll let us help him**. **I care** about him. **Wilson cares** about him. **His team cares.**

House has **scars**, scars **deeper** than even I can imagine that strike at him to the very core, his soul. For a long time, **I've wondered** how it would end. But** it isn't an end.**

And I know now, more than ever **one more **important thing. **I love him.**

**I have hope for him.** Hope is a word that is the saving grace for the loved, lovers, the ill and dying, the young and the old. **House is going to start** fighting now.

And he'll be okay.

**House will heal.**

I know that now. He'll know, too.

**I have hope.**

He'll be alright.

Maybe **this is a brighter day.**

**_______________________________________________________________________**

One word. **Hope. ** No other comment necessary on my part. Two or three more chapters left.


	6. The Summer Part 1

**A/N: Next Chapter Enjoy! Or hate??? Hope not! Review!**

The Room is plush, to put it simply. It has everything that I could ever want. Lights, pillows, leather chairs, a couch, memory foam mattress, 24-7 personnel. Yeah right, I wish.

The people here are all so different. I don't think they really understand my situation. I'm in the loony bin, and they don't seem to understand why. I'm normal, honestly. I just hallucinate; have a bit of a drug problem, and an obvious mental issue. But it's really only obvious to those who know me best. Wilson…Cuddy…my team.

They can't understand because they don't know me, not yet that is. But they treat me like I'll break if they touch me or press the wrong nerve. So far that is. What they don't see…I'm already broken. I have been. I'm supposed to be the man with the answers, but I have more questions than answers now. Maybe being in this place will get me back to my old self, my good ole smartass self.

What's going on outside my new and temporary home?

Cameron and Chase? Are they happy? Foreteen? Is it still happening (I will update EFEF soon by the way) ?

Wilson hasn't said a word about Cuddy. Maybe she asked him not to. I( really need to explain things to her. Cuddy doesn't know, Wilson doesn't know. No one knows. Well, no one besides Amber.

Is this you, House? Is this who you really are? An insane freak? Who are you House? Do you even know? When you look in the mirror, who do you see?

He was looking in the mirror, full length, which they had provided for him, when he heard her. She was standing behind him, looking at him over his shoulder, one of her hands brushed his arm. It was the first time she had spoken since he had gotten here.

"I don't know Amber, I don't know,"

You don't? Can I help?

"Maybe," Kutner was no where to be seen, or heard. "How could you help?"

If I'm a hallucination, that's one half your brain, talking to the other half, you can help yourself by letting me help you. Listen to me. You did before.

"Was that even you, telling me to get off the bus, or was that real, not part of my brain?"

I don't know, maybe, but either way I know about it, because, I'm you, you're just talking with yourself.

"Am I?"

Yes. If they catch you at it, they won't think you're so normal for a lunatic any more.

"Let them catch me, At least I have you for company, Kutner seems to have gone,"

Kutner can't help you the way I can, but he's here, he's always here, just like me. We're in your head, House. We always have been, your thoughts have just taken our form to get your attention.

"I don't want to talk to you anyhow, really, would I try and kill Chase? Honest Injun answer please!" he told her with a snarky grin on his face.

She had sat down in the arm chair that was surprisingly comfortable, and was looking at him through large crystalline eyes. She looked inhuman.

"Really, Doctor Wilson, I don't see what's wrong with Doctor House," said the Mayfair Psych hospital director.

"Of course you don't,"

"What do you mean?"

"Only he can… physically 'see' what's 'wrong' with him. He… oh, just look," Wilson said as they made it to the viewing room. House was talking to the chair.

"He hallucinates. A couple people. Usually, it's my dead girlfriend, a former employee of his. Her name was Amber. They were on a bus together, there was an accident. They could both have died. She would have lived, if she hadn't taken flu pills, her kidney's shut down and couldn't process the drugs. It's a long story. The other person is another recently deceased former employee/coworker, Dr. Kutner. He killed himself; none of us ever saw it coming. It really hit House hard that he hadn't caught the signs. Then more recently…he hallucinated detoxing with Dr. Cuddy. He… hallucinated the detox, Cuddy being there…staying the night. He's…in love with her,"

"Who's he talking to right now, do you suppose?"

"Amber, that's what he looks like when he talks to…"

"I should start calling you CB again,"

"Yeah he's talking with Amber,"

"How do you know?"

"He used to call her CB, before the accident,"

"CB?"

"Cutthroat Bitch,."

"That's really nice,"

"You don't know House. He still calls one of his employee's by her number, 13, everyone else does too. I have a lot of nicknames,"

"And they are?"

_As if that's important! _Wilson thinks to himself in awe."All of them?"

"Why not?"

"Normally, he calls me Wilson. When he's happy with himself, or wanting to annoy me, he calls me any of the following : Jimmy, Jimmy-boy, Wonder-boy, Jimmy the Wonder-boy, Jimmy the Wonder-boy oncologist, Jimmy-boy the wonder oncologist, Jimmy-boy the wonder oncologist in tights, and Jimmy the Wonder-boy oncologist in tights. I don't really mind, a lot, I'm just not overly fond of 'Jimmy'

"What does he call your boss?"

"Really, mostly, Cuddy, he calls her Cuddy and, if in a good or annoying mood, Party Pants or Fun Bags. Of course we call him sweet sauce behind his back,"

"You egg him on?"

"It wasn't ever this serious before,"

"So you admitted him?"

"No. He admitted himself,"

Just saying it was hard, not to mention actually thinking about it.

"Would you like to meet his psychiatrist?"

"My pleasure,"

He sighed disparagingly at the psychologist sitting primly across from him. She wore glasses and a suit that was entirely opposite of Cuddy's style. House would be disappointed, that is, if the shrink was pretty. She was younger, but plain, with a pinched nose that screamed 'I'm a bitch' from a mile away. Wilson frowned, giving her an unintentional dark look. He was not getting a good first impression from this woman.

Parsimoniously **(wow that's a long word!)** the psychologist, her name was Penny Jenson, surveyed her critic. He was gorgeous, of course, with light, slightly curly, brown hair and huge creamy brown eyes. And from what she could tell by the way that he was looking at her, he already hated her. And she hadn't even said anything yet. But he probably had read her reports and decided to hate her then.

"From what I read, he isn't doing any better, and the detox, well, frankly the detox went like hell for him. You're supposed to be helping him!"

Penny had almost forgotten that besides being co-medical proxy with Dr. Cuddy, Dr. Wilson was Dr. House's best friend. She was screwing this up right off the bat.

"Well, Dr. Wilson, he does need to learn to cope with his pain, and -"

"You need to remember that Dr. House has lived with his pain for a very long time and can deal with it. He does, I'll admit, have a pain management problem, but he also has a pain problem, that can only be taken care of with medication. That medication, you need to remember, is Vicodin. That is his life support, and you've taken it away from him till he's completely detoxed. He's in a lot of pain, and he's an ass, he's not going to cooperate unless you have something to bargain with. And I bet you that your best shot at bargaining with him is giving him Vicodin. It's going to be tough for you to get anywhere with him if you don't get to know him. And that's why I'm here. Because he won't help you, I have to. I know him best of anybody, with the exception of his mother, and Cuddy."

Penny was speechless. She said the first and most unprofessional thing that came into her head. "You call your boss Cuddy?"

Wilson frowned even more. He was finally upset. "That's beside the point. Do you want to make progress with House, or don't you? Because he needs it and I might be able to finally stay married without having to get a divorce or have my girlfriend die in an accident because she had to pick him up from a bar at 5 O' Clock at night, because he got drunk because he was pissed that I was spending time with her!"  
"Ummm…my condolences, but Dr. House needs to be dealt with and you are not his psychologist, and I know how to deal with drug addicts, they're all the same way, trust me I can handle him,"

Wilson shook his head. 'No. You can't. You don't understand. Every situation is different; you can't categorize them like that. One is a druggy because they want to be, House is a drug addict because he has to be,"

"But he doesn't have to be. He can take them, and not be addicted. But he doesn't. He chose to be addicted,"

"Look, Doctor, I'm not saying that I want him to be addicted to Vicodin. That's why he's here. But he can't deal with the chronic pain. He's going to be an ass, a lot. Do you want help with that or not.

Penny Jenson said nothing.

Wilson was wishing that he could be unprofessional enough to flip her off. But he didn't.

The knock at my door was about as expected as getting no questions from House's immediate staff about where he had gone. Surprise, Surprise. It's Wilson. James Wilson, M.D. my head oncologist. And from the look on his currently haggard-ish appearing face, well.. I'd guess that he had just been to see House.

"Come on in Wilson," I say as I get him some of my freshly brewed coffee while he makes himself comfortable in one of my nice couches. I return with a mug for each of us and two coasters. Might as well talk about misery in comfort.

"So," I say.

"So," He replies. Good lord we're off to a wonderful start! Here we are two, perfectly respectable working adult doctors that have no idea about how to begin talking about one of our closest friends' mental heath. What a mouthful.

"I don't know," he begins. "I just don't know," Apparently he thinks that the situation is grim. No, I'm not talking about the doctors' treatment of House, rather the patients' treatment of them. It's gonna take them a while to make any progress with the biggest ass to grace my presence in over a decade, and to tell the truth, I feel sorry for them. For me it wouldn't be a big deal, I've long since learned how to deal with His Snarkiness, the King of Sarcasm. It took me over twenty years to get this close to perfecting the handling of House, and I'm still a long way off.

But I'm not just worried about the doctor, that's just to make me feel better about the whole situation. We're both really and genuinely worried for our obnoxious friend.

Wilson and I sit together in silence. Maybe it's better this way, not talking about it. Just sitting here, together, thinking about things. We don't need to say anything. But we should. I break the silence.

"How is he?"

She doesn't want to say anything, I can tell that. It's hard for her. He did announce to the whole lobby that he slept with her. And, well, from what I gather from her first reaction, they had, at some point. Just not the time that House was thinking of. He told me during our last visit that he hallucinated the sex he had told me of just weeks before. I'm kind of curious as to how she's dealing with that revelation. She 'un-fired' him after his admittance, but I don't think that they spoke a word after she brought him to my office.

But Cuddy finally breaks the silence. "How is he?"

"Talking to Amber, but he's quite to the point where he'd rather strangle her, if you know what I mean. Threatening to call her Cutthroat-bitch again, stuff like that. Otherwise, well, he's detoxed, finally,"

His little shout-out hasn't affected the affection that she feels for him. If anything, I suppose, it's increased it. It was a hallucination. She feels bad. Like she led him on or something, even though, to her credit, she did nothing to him, really.

Cuddy is looking out the window, a faraway expression on her face. Who knows what she's thinking about.

I get up and leave my empty mug of coffee sitting on her side table, and see myself out, my last wistful thought as I step over the threshold of her house being the hope that maybe, like him, she'll be alright.


	7. Escape Excursions

His cell was lying benignly on the desk when it rang _Grounds for Divorce_, by Elbow playing out as he picked it up. House must have been plying with it. _Who on earth can it be at this hour? And on my cell no less? _ Wilson looked at his phone's caller ID – Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital. Tentatively he picked up the receiver and held it to his ear. One person, and one person only.

"House?!"

"Yes. How many other friends do you have in the asylum?"

"Well, a few I consider acquaintances, but, when you put it like that…"

"Ha, ha, very funny, what's Wonder boy up to in his office at such a late hour? Helping the needy little bald kids?"

"That's my job isn't it? Give the young dying consolation. What are you up to calling me at such a time of night? I never pegged you for much of a night owl, but then you aren't an early bird either so…"

"I need someone _sane _to talk to, everyone in here crazy," House whined

"Yeah, no shit Sherlock, you're in a Mental hospital,"

"I prefer the term 'loony bin' it makes me feel better,"

_What a load of shit. _He thought, but that was just like House to say something that preposterous. Leave it to the hallucinatory doctor to ask for his metal hospital to be called a loony bin.

"And what is it that makes you think that everyone at Mayfield is loony, to use your term?"

After a pause House responded. "Loopy, that's a better one for this circumstance. What make me think that they're all loopy, well…"

_I had just entered the Mayfield Psych Hospital for the first time. My hair had already been buzzed. In the hallway before me two clinical staff was helping a patient into his wheel chair. The patient was mumbling random syllables and the staff was talking to him as if he could understand. The point was the soothing tune, but he didn't seem to find it soothing. He began to laugh insanely, stopping suddenly when my intimidating figure threw a shadow. _

_I looked down on the group incredulously. "You guys are crazy," I said in an indicting way, one eyebrow high on my forehead. This was probably the most outrageous decision I had ever made in my life. But it was necessary._

"Yeah, they sound like they should all be admitted," Wilson replied sarcastically to satisfy House's craving for familiarity in conversation. "So really, what's up?"

Another pause. "I'm bored,"

_That's House for you. Bored, in a mental hospital. _"So what are you going to do to combat your boredom, raise Hell till it ices over, or till they throw you out or lock you up for good?"

"Something along those lines, yes. I've decided to assuage my boredom by planning my dramatic escape and then execute it, however successfully or otherwise futile my efforts may end up being,"

"Just to take your mind off nothing, or are you second-guessing yourself about Mayfield?"

"A Big Mac Combo of both, my tights wearing friend,"

Wilson shakes his head envisioning House's smirk. "Well, have fun and good luck with that. I'll bet you fifty dollars that you get a hundred yards into the out of bounds area before they catch you at it,"

"$150, 125 yards and we have a deal," _Asshole._

"Fine, deal, now get going before we're both busted,"

"I salute you sir,"

"Yeah right,"

"Remember 150 buckaroo's and 125 yards,"

"Sure House, whatever," and the line dies. _House, grand schemer of the 21__st__ century._

His _cell. _What a comforting notion. He had his own _cell. _And he was to stay in that cell. Not sneak out to use the phone at night, even though he had _really _just wanted to see if the bathrooms for the personnel were better than those for the patients. Honest Injun, he had sworn.

And was promptly hauled away to his room. But they had called it a cell. And it felt like one too. Had Wilson tipped them off to shake is resolve in the bet? Either way, his pride was deeply hurt. He, Greg House, the master escape artist, had been caught.

He felt that he needed to occupy his thoughts with some break out schemes. And the other grand schemer decided to drop by.

I think we should draw our plan of escape out on the cold dirt ground of our cell, shall we?

"Cutthroat, there is no dirt floor,"

Well, by the looks of this place there might as well be, don't you think? Cause if I think so, you must too, right?

"Are you going to help formulate our getaway plot , or are you going to sit there and antagonize me so that I can't finish it before the light of day breaks and we get caught with the evidence red handed?"

Fine. I'll help. But, you should be nicer, or I might tip off the guard.

"Sure you would, you're trapped here too. If anything I think that we should use you to distract the guards so that we can lift the keys and skip this joint," retorted House to the hallucination of Amber. Flexing his sarcasm muscle always made House feel like he was 'on top'.

Or, we could just play Battleship on our wall with the prisoner on the other side, and when we call out 'E 19 sink and destroy' they'll think that we're plotting to overthrow the head of security and break out.

"Playing 'I'm a dangerous criminal who is trying to come up with a plot to escape' is fun and all, but the 1930's origins of Battleship story is just a little overboard, pardon the pun,"

Of all the random knowledge in his head, Amber chose to spew 1930's gangster trivia. House shook his head and laid down on his cot of a bed in the large and empty room. This little bump on his road was more comparable to a pothole in the highway - things just got better and better. And a bump on a road is a lot better than a pot hole in the freeway when you're riding a motercycle without a helmet.

And then out the blue Amber was lying next to him.

You know what you should do?

"What?"

Use the little jaunt to the carnival to stage your getaway. You're way out of bounds then, and they'll never know what hit them when all of the sudden the mad doctor is on the loose.

"Ha. Very funny. I'm laughing so hard that I'm not making any sound. Good suggestion. Now let's take the initiative and plan this out so that we don't botch it up too bad. Otherwise Wilson might not pay up,"

Oh, he'd never jip us.

"You so sure about that?"

Yeah, he liked the birthday sex too much.

"TMI, Cutthroat Bitch, TMI,"

The light in the hallway switched on and House closed his eyes, calming and breathing naturally. The shadow passed by his door. Without opening his eyes, a sneaky grin appeared on House's face, his features mischievously contorted.

Piece of cake.


	8. Carnival Theatrics

**A/N: House and inmates go to a circus! 'Come children, this way to the carnival! No bad boy Greg, don't snark off to the little girl! No, stay, bad Greg, bad!'**

**Katja**

**_______________________________________________________________________**

**Flashback – **

_"Hey, House, how're you feeling today?"_

_"How do you think? I'm stuck in this dreary, boring place with nothing to do. I feel like shit,"_

_"Yeah, I suppose,"_

_"Wilson?" There is a burning in that one questioning word._

_"Yeah House?"_

_"The sex with Cuddy, the time that I told you about,"_

_"What about it House?"_

_"That was a hallucination. Tell her,"_

_"Kay, anything else,"_

_"Yeah, it was great, better than the first time,"_

_"Yeah, ha, ha House, what a laugh,"_

_"So what did he want to tell me," She's asking him over the phone. Wilson sighs heavily._

_"What he yelled out to the lobby, about you and him, he really thought that it had happened. He hallucinated everything. He just wanted you to know that he was sorry. And I want you to know that I egged him on,"_

_"So," Cuddy begins in a very authoritarian tone, "What you're really saying is that he told you that hallucinated sex was the best he ever had and you're sorry that you encouraged him,"_

_There is a smirk in her voice._

_"Yeah, let's go with that,"_

_Cuddy chuckles over the phone. "See you later Wilson,"_

_"Bye,"_

_And she hangs up the phone. "Job well done Wilson, you really can't lie can you?" he says to himself and hangs up too._

Present Day –

The carnival. House had been to one once before. This time he was incarcerated. Wonderful. He was a month into his time at the Mayfield Psychiatric Hospital and by now he was beginning to become more himself, the general all around jerk off. He was sarcastic, annoying, pissy and disrespectful. Finally some normality had returned to his usual nature.

Unfortunately for the doctors, these demeaning traits were all deflected onto them, and other inmates. One thing was certain about patient 81521195 **(if you number the alphabet, his patient number spells House)** – he was quite a character, if not a shady one. They had every right to worry that he would be giving them hell on this outing.

And House had every intention of proving himself to be just as troublesome as one might expect.

The carnival de Italiana was a testament to the amazing food and fun of the traditions _Carnival, _or rather here called Mardi Gra. It was a traveling Circus Carnival and so took place no where near the appropriate time. But the head staff members of Mayfield felt that an day out would be a good chance for the inmates, who had been cooped up for so long, to get fresh air and socialize with relatively sane peers.

They should have put House on a leash. Today, was the day that the break out was to occur. Break out of there custody, that is. He was going to a naughty boy, and then he was going to pretend to be behaving better so that the focus would slide off of him and onto others. And then…When the best opportunity provided itself he was going to make his move.

House looked around at the loud, crowded, brawling circus and carnival for some inspiration, or an opening, which ever he spotted first. It was then that he noticed it. The scooter booth. The _motorized _scooter booth. They had been allotted a certain amount of their own money to spend on the trip, so paying for it shouldn't have been to much a problem. They had also been split into groups, each with a chaperone. They weren't supposed to wander.

The moment the head count was finished and his chaperone's head was turned House shed his dark jacket in favor of the white t-shirt, walked over to the nearest kiosk selling hats, bought a nice grey bowler and began walking nonchalantly back towards the scooter booth.

His plan was ingenious. So simple, yet ingenious. It didn't matter if he was eventually dragged back to Mayfield (although that would be a plus) the fact that he could escape their grasp made a point, and House was all about making a point.. He might just make this. It might just work. Awe, who was he kidding? He, Greg House, Psych patient was free.

And what better song to pop into his head at that moment than _None of Us Are Free _by Solomon Burke. _Oh well, _he thought as he began to hum it swingishly, _it is a good song. _And then House's mind set to more important matters. The one thing that he and Amber hadn't yet decided was where to go. He knew that no matter where he went they'd probably find him.

But he wanted to go to work. He needed a puzzle, or some coma guy to share a room with and eat his sub sandwich with and watch his favorite soap with. And by the time his little motor scooter got to PPTH, _Prescription Passion_ would just be starting it's 24 hour, 2 in the afternoon to 2 in the afternoon the next day special _Brock Didn't Die Last Year Marathon! _He wouldn't miss it for the world.

House had to stop once for gasoline. He was about halfways there, tank and distance, when the cop car drove into the parking lot. It might be after him. House turned away as his tank filled up.

This was fun, pretending that he was a wanted man. It probably went back to his last discussion with Amber about the random 1930's gangster knowledge. It was slightly annoying, but it added interest to his little adventure.

His motor scooter took him the rest of the way and as he pulled into his handicap parking space House was comforted to notice that it still had his name on it and not some other random lame doctors' name. He got off and hobbled to the back janitor's entrance, jimmied the lock with a stolen paper clip, and enter the building.

House was home. More importantly he was free.

Now, what would be an amazing feat would be to get back to the carnival before they notice you're missing.

"Yeah, like that's possible, CB,"

But you have to admit that it sounds tempting…

"No shit…but still highly impossible. Now let's go find your boyfriend before it's too late. And let's not get sabotaged before we reach the goal – Wilson's Office."

And with that House and Amber were off. House grabbed a lab coat and took off like a flash, using all the janitorial elevators. House knew that which none other in PPTH did – how to get around the premises without being spotted. The janitors were lazy asses, and as far as House knew, he was the only one who had noticed.

And in less than the two minutes that it took for him to get into the building he was standing in front of Jimmy's office. He carefully observed that Wilson was with a patient and his fellow had just turned to corner, and his office was empty. House would approach in the classic House way. The balcony.

He noticed that his desk had not changed, except for its document tidiness. He opened his balcony door, vaulted over the separator and stood before the entrance to Wilson' office. Wilson's balcony office door flew open. The patient and Wilson turned towards him, in stupefy.

"Pardon me a minute," Wilson said politely aside to his patient. He turned to House, saying nothing.

"Tada!!!!" He cried sarcastically, his arms spread eagle, and he made a dramatic bow, somewhat like a circus performer might. " I made it!!! Haha, you owe me $150 dollars! I made it all the way to your office!!! Pay up, Jimmy-boy, I'm collecting taxes today,"

Wilson shook his head. "House, you're gonna be in trouble," Wilson had to be grown up about things. And yet… "How did you do it?" Wilson's patient had an annoyed look on her face so House obligingly continued his story.

"They took us to a carnival, so I changed my appearance slightly, bought this nice hat and headed back to a nice little motor scooter rental store that I had seen at the entrance. It was easier than taking candy from a baby, and, trust me, I've done that before,"

Wilson sighed heavily. "Alright House, you win, I pay up. One hundred and fifty dollars. All yours," Wilson smirked in response to the satisfied look that House's features had acquired. House had accomplished many things, and this feat, added amongst the others came to Wilson as no surprise.

"And now, I have to call Mayfield and tell them that I know the whereabouts of their missing psych patient, and then, I get to drive you there. How fun for me,"

At the mention of the words psych patient, the cancer patient gasped slightly looking at House in fear and awe. _Way to give him a bigger head, lady, _thought Wilson as he turned to her, assuring her that House was physically harmless, and that the most damage he could do to her was with his mouth. House was mostly a danger to himself, and as long as he wasn't treating you in his current condition, she could have feared him less.

She relaxed slightly, and Wilson rescheduled her appointment with him for a later date. As soon as she left, Wilson grabbed his coat and was about to leave through his main office door.

"Wait," House stopped his progress. "Walk out, and see if my ducklings are in the office, if they aren't then come back in like you've forgotten something. I'll lead you out,"

Wilson left and then, upon returning informed House of his teams absence. And House led Wilson out the way he had gotten in. "I can't believe you House," Wilson shook his head as they walked towards House's parking spot, the motor scooter sitting squarely in the center. "And I suppose I have to return that to the Circus then too?"

Wilson needn't have asked the question. They were driving down I-50 when Wilson decided to call Mayfield. House sat shotgun, twiddling his thumbs to the beat of the Rolling Stones, _You Can't Always Get What You Want. _It was ironic. He was NOT getting what he wanted by going back to Mayfield. But it _was_ what he needed, House supposed.

"HI, Mayfield Psychiatric? Yes, This Doctor James Wilson, and I have one of your patients here with me, he um-"

"HE DITCHED YOU PEOPLE AT THE CARNIVAL, THAT'S $150 TO ME!" House yelled from his seat in a triumphant authoritarian tone.

"Yes, that was him. No, he's quite stable, just really proud of himself at the moment, that's all. He has a big head. I mean what kind of person comes up with 'Huge Ego, Sorry' as an anagram for their name? What? Never mind. Yes, I'm bringing him in right now. We'll be there in 15 minutes. How? He rented a motor scooter. What can I say? He's not one of the most brilliant diagnosticians in the world for nothing. Yes. Goodbye,"

Wilson sighed, looking over at his best friend. House was grinning, snickering. He was hugely egotistical at the moment. "You've really done it this time, House," House didn't reply. He just continued to smile and tap his cane along with the beat.


End file.
